


The Photograph

by 221A_brina



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Character Death, Don't forget the tissues, F/M, Romance, Sad and Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 18:34:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221A_brina/pseuds/221A_brina
Summary: Inspired by the song of the same name by Rick Springfield.For a listen check out:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZhqxOB5wDlg





	The Photograph

**Author's Note:**

> Today (July 29, 2017) was the 5th anniversary of the death of my Boston Terrier (son) who was the love of my life. I was feeling a bit maudlin, and was looking through some of the sad songs by one of my favorite Australian singers – Rick Springfield – and came across this favorite. It's from his "Comic Book Heroes" album released Sept. 17, 1973.

July 29, 1989

Mrs. Adele Teasdale and her new neighbor Miss Maggie Michaels walked down the Esplanade on their way to the tram. Their conversation ranging from gardening to gossip. As they passed Wardlow, Maggie asked Adele about the resident of the Italianate mansion.

"What's her story? I've heard wisps of all sorts of tales, and don't know WHAT to believe. You've lived here for a number of years... what can you tell me about this lady?" Maggie begged her newfound friend for information, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Well... it's a looong story. I don't know the whole thing, but..." She leaned in close, and in a conspiratorial stage whisper continued, "from what I understand, back in the 20's she was a 'Lady Detective' - something pretty much unheard of back then. I hear tell she was quite scandalous as well – with quite the parade of men over the years."

"Ooh... do tell!" Maggie said, eyes widening and hands rubbing together in anticipation of some more juicy details.

"She worked for a number of years with the City South Police on various cases – mostly homicides, a few domestic cases thrown in for good measure." Adele nodded to the bench as they reached their stop. They sat down to await their tram.

"There was something that happened in 1929, I think – she flew her father back to England for something or other..." Her eyes becoming unfocused, her mind trying to recall the details.

"Wait a second..." Maggie startled. "She FLEW?! You mean she had a plane? She was an aviatrix? Wow! Not many of them way back then, eh?" Her admiration of this unknown woman rose with each minute.

"Hard to believe, right? She'll be 90 in a couple of months. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah – flying to England. From what I recall, she was there for a while – I can't remember exactly how long, but then she came back and continued working with City South for a number of years. Mostly with a DI named John... no Jack Robinson. They were quite the couple. I've seen a few photos of the two of them. She was a stunner - still is - and he was very handsome - 'quite the catch' as they said back then."

A pinging bell brought them out of their intense conversation, and the ladies rose to get on the tram. As they settled into seats in the back, Maggie made another inquiry.

"Did they every marry, have kids?" She was a sucker for a 'happy ever after' romance, and waited for the answer with bated breath.

"Mmm... interestingly enough, no. He wound up moving in with her sometime after she returned from England. That, in itself, was quite the scandal." Adele brought her open hand in an exaggerated motion over her mouth and raised her eyebrows in a look of mock shock, then winked. "From what she's told me, they were very happy."

Maggie pondered the information for a few moments. "Hmph. I wonder why they never got married? Wasn't that the expected norm back then? Get married and have a passel of kiddies?"

Adele waggled her head back and forth. "I guess so. I always wondered but I never asked. Thought it might be a bit rude."

"Mmm... that's true," agreed Maggie, nodding. "So..." She started, an excited gleam in her eyes, "about this new dress shop..."

Their conversation drifted on the air as the tram brought them closer to their destination.

__________________________________________________

Hands, slightly tremored, littered with age spots and weathered by time, tug on the night table drawer handle, pulling it gently outwards. It opens with ease, as it has for years, the inside treasure frequently viewed and admired. She pauses. Familiar back pains surface as she bends to reach in and delicately grasp the prize inside, placing it on top of the table.

She removes her dressing gown, now tattered and darned for far longer than imaginable. It was always her favorite. Chinese black silk with lush and colorful embroidery of two fighting cocks. She's amazed that it isn't completely threadbare. It's a small comfort now. Wrapping herself in fond memories of days gone by.

She tucks into bed, pulling the blankets and doona up to her chest. The fire in the grate helps dispel the cold that runs through her bones on an almost daily basis. Her hand reaches for the tumbler of whiskey – glass, not crystal - as her hands have been shaking, unsure, and weak for the past few years; several of her favorite crystal tumblers have been lost because of it. The problems with aging. She huffs a quiet breath remembering how she'd said she'd never get old or weak. Apparently, time had other plans.

She closes her eyes for a moment before saying a silent toast and knocking back her whiskey, then places the glass on the night table next to the photograph. She gingerly picks up the tattered well-worn photograph. The corners are gone, the paper is fraying, there's a minute stain on one side, and slight creases are evident. This is obviously a well-loved photograph, as is the subject of the photograph itself. She looks on in longing, sorrow, happiness, love... the myriad emotions flood her mind as tears begin to flood her cheeks.

The handsome man in the photograph – overcoat and fedora firmly in place - tugs at her heart. Never in her wildest dreams in a life so carefree and footloose did she ever imagine, or intend to, fall in love, or commit herself to anyone besides herself. Her early years had been more than proof that one must only rely on one's self. But...

But then came Jack. Jack Robinson. Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson to be precise. He came like a quiet warmth that creeps up on you on a breezy spring day. One moment you're enjoying the cool breeze, and just as it starts to get the slightest bit brisk, you're suffused with a warmth you didn't knew you desired, and all you want to do is to bask in it, revel in it.

"Has it really been 25 years today my dear Jack?" She asks the photograph. Her mind replaying many happy memories as if a quarter century has been but the blink of an eye. "I miss you. So very much. But you know that, don't you, Inspector?" Tears drop freely onto the doona, joining past clusters of tear stains marking the edge of the bed linens. "And much as I hesitated to tell you in all our years, you know that I loved you. Loved you more than I ever thought I could love someone. I've never stopped. You were a tough act to follow." Her hesitant smile breaks through the falling tears. "No... that's not it... You set the bar so high, no one could hope to follow. No one ever did."

She places the photograph on the pillow next to hers, drawing the back of her arthritic fingers down the smooth pillowcase, in her mind imagining the smooth-shaven cheek of her long-gone love. She turns to her right to extinguish the bedside lamp. The Art Deco nude holding a globe, a silent companion all these years.

"Goodnight, my love. Wherever you are." Her declarations of love have spilled more easily off her tongue in the last 25 years than they ever had in the past. As she drifts off to sleep, in the space between moments, she's sure she can hear the rumbling baritone of the man she loved. The man she loves still.

"I'm right here, Miss Fisher. Phryne. I always will be."

A smile creeps up the corners of lined and wrinkled lips as they pucker in a pantomimed kiss. A quiet sigh escapes; a broad smile spans her face as she settles into a peaceful slumber.

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **The Photograph** by Rick Springfield 
> 
> Hands old and poor, her back bent and sore,  
> She lifts from the drawer,  
> The photograph.  
> Though tattered and torn, through years it has worn,  
> But still bears the form of the man she knew. 
> 
> Her eyes are weak, spilling tears on her cheek.  
> Her lips start to speak to the photograph.  
> She tells him with pride, she still loves him inside.  
> Though years ago died, la da da da... 
> 
> And all of the people she knew,  
> Those who don't know the score say,  
> We wonder why, she never married,  
> Such a pretty girl she was, such a lovely face she had,  
> Such a pretty thing she was... 
> 
> She turns to her right, to put out the light,  
> And wishes goodnight to  
> The photograph.  
> Her love, though it's strong and lasted this long,  
> And goes on and on  
> She's still alone.


End file.
